


The Darkest Hour

by SandraS



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-08 23:12:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4324428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandraS/pseuds/SandraS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set just before the start of Season 10: Sam feels like he can't go on. But an unexpected encounter gives him every reason to keep trying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Kripke Enterprises, Wonderland Sound and Vision, Warner Bros. et al. This is for fun, no copyright infringement is intended. 
> 
> Author's note and warning: Spoiler up to and including Season 10

The terrifying thing was: He felt himself sliding. Again. And there seemed to be absolutely nothing he could do about it. 

Stopping the car in the parking lot of a roadside diner Sam sat for a moment and listened to the ticking of the cooling engine. Then he slowly crossed his arms on the steering wheel and put his forehead down on them. 

When Dean had been in hell it had been different. He thought. He remembered his pain and terror as he held his brother's mutilated body. His rage. The same rage that kept driving him from crossroads to crossroads after he and Bobby had buried him. A repeat, really, of the time after Gabriel – who they had then thought 'just' a trickster – had taken Dean away from him. An anger so consuming, he had to keep moving, fighting, struggling just to give it an out. Anger at the world, dad, fate, destiny, Lilith, himself … and Dean. Most of all at Dean for making that deal, for thinking Sam would feel it less than he had done when dad did just the same thing. Would resent it less than he had done. Would be able to live with it. And then Ruby had found him. Actually SAVED him from himself (God, the irony), showed him a way to channel his rage and use it for what he thought was something good – and also got him hooked on demon blood. The bitch. 

Sam exhaled, a long, shuddering gust of breath. Hot, unwanted tears suddenly prickling behind closed eyelids but he didn't even had it in him to let them fall. 

Because the Cage had taken that rage from him. Had given him – with enough distance and an impressive detour into insanity and Castiel's act of contrition – peace. And also robbed him of the one driving force he had relied on his entire life. Leaving only emptiness behind. 

Rolling his head slightly on his crossed arms Sam exhaled again, the following inhale ending in a sound suspiciously like a sob. 

Truth was … he hadn't even noticed at first. First because he had had no soul and then there had been – as always – Dean. Dean who propelled him forward with his energy and determination as well as occasional bouts of desperation and self-destructive hopelessness that needed to be counteracted. And then Dean had been … gone. Lost in purgatory. 

It was like having the rug pulled right out from under his feet, sending him into free fall without ever hitting the bottom. So he had run. Away from his life, from hunting, all those monsters in his head he dared not face alone. Away from this emptiness inside of him. Knowing deep down it was the wrong thing to do. Unable to find the strength to do anything else. Unable to stop this slide into apathy he confused with a wish for normal life. 

And he could feel it happening again. 

Right here. 

Right now. 

Could feel this lethargy poisoning his thoughts and stilling his limbs no matter how much he knew he should – no, must – keep moving, keep searching for his brother before something unthinkable happened. Could not stop listening to this tiny, cruel voice in his head insisting that it was no use, that is was never any use, that he had not saved Dean from going to hell just as he had not rescued him from there or purgatory or the First Blade or himself. That he never would. Never. 

And he was just so, so tired of failing. 

Finally sitting back Sam listlessly stared outside for a long moment then forced himself to climb out of the car, feeling like an old man. Voices drifted over from the brightly lit main room of the diner, snatches of music, dim shapes of people moving about behind the big windows. He almost got back in the car but then he would have needed to drive, decide on a destination, on a next step, would have had to think about all those obstacles piled sky-high in his path and it was all just … too much. Easier to just put everything aside for a moment or two (or days, weeks, months), focus on what was right in front of him (a necessary meal, rest, an injured dog)… 

Sighing in defeat Sam dropped his gaze and made his way to the entrance. On entering he barely willed himself to look up as the door clattered shut behind him, struggling even for at least the appearance of normalcy – and stopped in his tracks. 

The diner was deserted. No music, no hectic bustle in the kitchen or behind the counter, no people… Except for the thin, dark-clad, black-haired man at one small table, methodically dissecting a burger and French fries on the plate in front of him. 

Sam's breath left him in a sudden rush. 

"Sam." 

There was cool acknowledgment in the cultivated voice devoid of anything human. Piercing black eyes in a haggard face as still and impassive as a statue's rose briefly and a long pale hand tilted the knife in it towards the empty chair on the other side of the table. 

"Sit." 

The man didn't even wait for his command to be followed, merely turned his attention downward again and cut another perfect little triangle of beef and bun out of the meal on his plate. Dipped it twice in the sauce. Put it in his thin mouth. Chewed and finally swallowed. 

Sam felt his own Adam's apple bob too though there was no moisture left in his mouth to go down. Every instinct – and at least those seemed still pretty much alive and kicking – screamed at him to turn and break for the door… But really, what good would it have done? There was not a chance in hell he could outrun something as powerful as Death. 

The soles of his shoes squeaked softly on the floor as he made his reluctant way over and sank on the edge of the indicated seat. 

Death's gaze remained purely on the next bite he was fastidiously cutting out of his burger. There was again the ritual with the sauce, the almost dainty chewing. He swallowed. Placed his knife precisely angled to half past four on the plate, then mirrored the position with the fork, prongs down and crossing just slightly over the blade. Resting his elbows on the table he folded his thin hands and finally fixed Sam with unreadable eyes. 

"I believe, I once mentioned the importance of the order of things to your brother." There was no real inflection in his accurate, slightly accented voice. "And I can assure you too that the order of things is. Important." 

Mind immediately flashing back to his decided lack of hesitation to summon Crowley for a deal after Dean … died … Sam grimaced. 

"Uh. Sorry?" 

Death's eyes narrowed and Sam found himself swallowing again. He really, really wished Dean were here. His brother had always had a better – if slightly wacky – connection with the Forth Horseman. Well. At least when they encountered him in reality and not in someone's (namely Sam's) death dreams. He cleared his throat. 

"We – we are just trying to clean up our messes." 

It sounded weak to his own ears but Death only pursed his lips briefly. And for a moment Sam thought he saw … something … in his eyes. Something like calculation, maybe. Then they were again opaque and still like a dark, fathomless well. 

"Good." 

Tapping a long forefinger once he then went on: "Though to be fair, the origin of this current mess is, in fact, a lot older than you." 

"What?" Sam frowned. 

Ignoring him Death unclasped his hands and picked up a French fry, holding it between thump and index finger. His immaculate brows drew slightly together as he studied it. 

"Also, I have found your brother to be much like your human food: Odd. But growing on you." 

The dryness of his tone could have raised clouds of dust but Sam's heart still stutter for a second with a hope he did not dare acknowledge. Death's cool eyes abruptly caught his across the French fry. 

"As I said: The order of things. Has to be preserved. So consider this a gift." 

Sam gasped for air, the hope he didn't dare having blossoming nevertheless almost painfully in his chest. 

"You– Do you mean you will – ?" 

"You have four hours." 

Death bit off the French fry. 

Sam yelped at the sudden sensation of falling; then realized that he WAS falling, the chair suddenly vanished under him, teeth rattling as he landed with a jar on the hard – and cold! – ground. 

"Ow! Son of a bitch!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Kripke Enterprises, Wonderland Sound and Vision, Warner Bros. et al. This is for fun, no copyright infringement is intended.

The ground, it turned out, was cold because he was sitting on an ice-covered sidewalk. Sam's huff of disbelief formed a small cloud in front of his face. 

"What the hell?" 

He hurriedly climbed to his feet, nearly sitting down a second time when his boots threatened to shoot out from under him. Hugging himself tightly to stop the violent shiver brought on by a gust of freezing wind he looked around what seemed to be a small town or suburban area. A vaguely familiar one. The startled cry of a woman derailed that thought. 

Whipping around the first thing Sam's eye caught on was the Impala, sitting at the curb. Then the house it was parked in front of – a house he had only ever seen in a handful old photographs for twenty-two years before setting foot in it for the first time … though it had not been the first time he was in it. And finally the blonde woman sitting at the bottom of the two steps leading up to the small front porch. 

"Oh god." The strangled whisper barely left his lips. "Oh god." 

Mary Winchester tried to lever herself up, grimacing with a short, rough sound of pain and Sam had crossed the snow-dusted lawn in a few long strides before he could think about it. 

"M–! I mean. Ma'am – are you all right?" 

"What?" His mother looked up, startled by the tall stranger suddenly standing in front of her and nodded automatically. "Oh, yes. Yes. I just slipped on the stairs and… Damn it." 

"Here, here, let me help you." 

Caught between concern and elation Sam crouched to put an arm around her back, offering the other hand for her to hold on to, all the while not able to take his eyes off her for one second. Drinking in her features, the little web of laugh-lines in the corners of her mouth he didn't remember from the one time he and Dean and Castiel had traveled into the past to save their parents from the angel Anna, the curve of her neck under her longer hair … the very prominent bulge of her belly under the wide daytime sweater she was cradling protectively. 

Sam's brain fairly short-circuited. 

Because if Mary appeared older than in 1979, if this was her second child she carried – then this meant it was Sam who was growing there inside of her. 

"Oh, thank you." 

Mary grabbed his wrist and tried to stand again, nearly bringing both of them down when Sam was too stunned to brace in time. There was a brief, frantic struggle but in the end they were upright, Sam having practically lifted her to her feet. Embarrassment for nearly dropping her quickly turned to worry as Mary grunted with pain and swayed against him as soon as she brought weight on her right foot. 

"What is it? You are hurt!" 

His mother shook her head with a grimace. 

"I think I twisted my ankle going down. Ow." 

She pressed a hand against her lower back, sending Sam straight into a panic. 

"I'll take you to the doctor." 

"No, really, I just need to sit down for a bit. Just help me inside the house, I'll be fine." 

"You are not fine!" Sam protested albeit assisting her up the steps and to the door. "You have to get checked out, especially in your – in your condition. Do you have someone to drive you to the hospital? Your husband?" 

Biting her lower lip Mary stopped in the doorway and cupped her belly again, indecision clear on her face. Then her expression set as she made up her mind and she glanced at the Impala but obviously dismissed it just as fast. 

"He's out of town, they are delivering a car. I will call a ride." 

She gestured at the phone mounted on the wall. Sam was having none of it though. 

"I'll drive you. This your car? Just let me get the keys." 

"No! No, thank you, but I can't ask you to do this." 

"You are not asking. I'm offering. Now let me get your coat and the keys." Sam determinedly started for the hook rail in the hall after making sure she had hold of the door-frame to support herself. "I don't mind doing this. Honestly. It –" 

"Mommy?" 

The timid little voice from the living room brought him to a screeching stop. 

And of course – of course, if it was HIM there in his mother's belly this meant that… Suddenly hardly able to draw a full breath he slowly turned towards the young child standing beside the couch, watching them with impossibly big eyes and – and – oh god, Dean was TINY, soft-looking blond hair like a halo around a delicate little face. He must not even come up to Sam's hip, and how should he ever be able to carry a baby out of a burning house in little more than six months, should ever be able to… 

"It's OK, Dean, honey, Mommy just took a little tumble on the stairs but everything will be alright. Now please get your coat and put on your boots, yes?" 

Sam shook his head once, hard, at hearing Mary's voice. Could still only stare, in stunned disbelief, as the small boy nodded and dashed past him to the coat rack and the tiny blue coat hanging on a hook near the floor. 

"… my son Dean. We have to take him with us, Mr …?" 

Mary's voice lifted questioningly at the end and Sam realized belatedly that she was talking to him. He blinked. 

"Uhm. S– Ji– Bob– I mean. Robert. Meyer." He offered a weak smile at Mary's raised brows. "Nicknames, they really mess with your head sometimes." 

"Uh-huh." The brows stayed raised but his mother merely nodded past him. "The long, brown one is mine." 

"Oh! Yes, sure, sure." 

Giving himself a mental shake Sam grabbed the brown coat and helped her into it then picked up the keys she pointed out to him. At least she already wore a semi-sturdy pair of slip-ons although they had done little to prevent her accident. Turning back around he was once again struck almost breathless by the sight of Dean, sitting on the floor by the cupboard under the stairs and so focused on pulling on a pair of bright yellow rubber boots, the tip of his tongue poked out of the side of his mouth. Sam had to close his eyes for a moment. 

They made the trip to the car without incident but once there Sam spent almost ten minutes frantically scraping ice off the windows while inside heating was turned on full blast. Even after that he STILL had to stop twice and do it again as well as clean the fogging windshield from the inside. Therefore it was no wonder that by the time they reached the hospital his nerves were considerably frayed … and it didn't exactly help when Mary steadfastly refused to have him park in the reserved area by the entrance for fear of having her car towed. Cursing under his breath Sam hustled the Impala into the first available 'legal' parking space and jogged inside to get a wheelchair and a doctor. 

"Excuse me!" Two women behind the front desk looked up at his breathless approach. "I've got my– I've got Mrs Winchester in the car outside, she took a fall and can hardly walk…"

"Mary?" the nurse with the receptionist asked immediately and Sam almost sagged with relief. 

"Yes. Yes, Mary Winchester." 

The nurse turned competently to her colleague. 

"Page Dr Welsh and see if you can get Dr Tyson down here as well." 

Grabbing a wheelchair she nodded at Sam to lead the way which he was happy to do. He was even more happy to find that Mary had really waited for them and not tried to stand on her own. Little Dean had taken the opportunity to climb over the back of the front seat and was now snuggled against her side, Mary's hand stroking his hair soothingly. 

"Ellie," she greeted the nurse with a rueful smile that looked forced, "I'm afraid I'm another victim of the weather. Slipped going down the front steps, of all things." 

"Well, that's Kansas in March for you," the nurse – Ellie obviously – replied, "Where does it hurt?" 

Mary's eyes flickered briefly to Dean. "My ankle. A little." 

By now it was very obviously a lot more than just 'a little' but the nurse's gaze too went quickly to Dean before she simply nodded. 

"OK. Sir, can you –?" 

"Yes, of course!" 

Sam jumped to assist his mother on her other side, and together they had her quickly settled in the wheelchair he then pushed back to the entrance. The nurse was still focused on Mary, asking carefully edited questions, while Dean was following like a duckling in her wake. Unnervingly silent, in Sam's opinion who was, after all, used to a much more vocal grown-up version. 

A doctor – Welsh, as far as Sam was able to gather – met them at the door, asked basically the same questions as Ellie only with less tact, declared further examination was necessary and ended with "– and somebody take that boy to the waiting room, please." 

"What?" Mary looked startled then concerned, "No, I –" 

"Mrs Winchester, we are probably going to take X-rays and can't have him underfoot for that. And then we need to do some – ah – other examinations as well." 

"I –," Mary said again then winced as she moved her foot by accident. 

"I can take care of him." 

The words just tumbled out of Sam's mouth. 

Everyone turned to look at him; Dr Welsh with impatience, Nurse Ellie considering and obviously trying to place him anywhere in relation to the Winchesters and Mary herself visibly conflicted between wariness of leaving her son with someone who was basically a stranger and concern not so much for herself but her unborn child. Her hand was cradling her belly again protectively. 

"I mean, I can sit with him in the waiting room until the nurses get us as soon as you have been checked out," Sam clarified rather awkwardly. 

He considered it a testament to how much his mother was hurting when she finally nodded. 

"Dean." She fabricated another smile for her son who was staring at her with huge eyes. "I need you to be a big boy for me and go sit with Mr Meyer for a little while. Can you do that? I'll be back in a few minutes. Dean?" 

Still staring Dean bobbed his head a little. 

"That's my boy." 

And within a few seconds the small group had vanished through a set of doors, leaving Sam and Dean standing alone in the reception area. 

"So, uh," Sam cleared his throat, looking down at the small form by his side, "Shall we go … sit?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Kripke Enterprises, Wonderland Sound and Vision, Warner Bros. et al. This is for fun, no copyright infringement is intended.

Sam cast his gaze about in search for the waiting room and was aided by a helpfully pointing finger of the front desk receptionist. Mouthing a quick thank you he gently herded Dean over there – nearly literally tripping over HOW FAR he had to reach down to do it. The little boy went willingly enough but kept glancing back over his shoulder in the direction his mother had disappeared in. Once inside the mercifully empty waiting room Sam made him take off his blue coat and hung it and his own jacket on the rickety coat rack. By the time he turned around again Dean had clambered up on one of the chairs and was staring forlornly at the door. 

And Sam was once again struck by how FRAGILE his strong and capable brother looked as a four-year-old. 

He shouldn't be, he knew. He had seen the photo Dean had stashed away as one of his most treasured possessions – though his big brother would never call it that, the stubborn jerk. Mom having an arm around a Dean looking just like this boy across the room, both of them smiling into the camera … something constricted Sam's throat, forcing him to swallow heavily. Because he knew the photo had been taken just before the demon came. Just before mom died. Just before the world of this earnest little boy had been shattered into a million pieces. 

Picking up a magazine from the table by the coat rack at random he walked over and sat down next to his too silent brother. 

"So, uhm, Dean, what do you say I read to you while we wait? About –" He squinted at the magazine, and yes, right, Lawrence, Kansas "– tractors and farm machinery?" 

Dean's eyes finally left the door to look at him, head tilted a little to one side as he considered the offer. Then he solemnly agreed "okay" and scooted over until he was practically tucked under Sam's arm because apparently that was the appropriate position for a small boy about to get read a story. Punching any breath right out of Sam's lungs. 

For an endless second he sat frozen like a deer in the headlights, arm raised halfway in the air, then lowered it gently, oh so gently around the thin shoulders. Felt the delicate, almost bird-like bones as they rose and fell with each breath and, OK, totally different than seeing something in a photograph, totally. Biting his lips he opened the magazine with trembling fingers and cleared his throat. 

"Good, let's see. Well, Ford has brought out a new model of the – uh – that one and the specifications are…"

Two magazines about farm machinery and one aborted one about livestock later (because, seriously, what the HELL) they looked up as Nurse Ellie poked her head through the door. 

"Hey, Dean. You can come see your mother now." 

Dean was off the chair in a flash though truth be told, Sam was not much slower. 

"Is she alright?" 

Ellie took Dean's hand and nodded in quick reassurance at Sam. "Well enough." 

They went down a corridor and finally turned into a room where Mary reclined on an examination table with a single crutch leaning against it. She immediately held out her hand, a smile brightening her entire face. 

"Dean." 

"Mommy!" 

The little boy ran to her and she drew him into a one-armed hug, kissing the top of his head. 

"I'm alright, honey. Nothing broken, no harm done, I just reeeally bumped my butt when I tumbled down on it." 

Dean giggled into her side as she smacked a second loud kiss on his head then drew back and shyly extended a hand towards her bulging belly but only touched it when she gave him silent permission. He turned beseeching eyes back up to her face. 

"Mommy, is the baby okay?" 

Mary brushed his cheek softly with the back of her fingers. 

"We are fine, Dean. We are both fine. And!" she added in a deliberately brighter tone, "We are even allowed to go home now! So where is your coat?" 

"Uh, we left it in the waiting room," Sam said, speaking up for the first time, "I'll go and get –" 

But Dean had already dashed back to the door, stopping short and holding up his hand to be taken. Sam blinked and then carefully closed his – in comparison huge – hand around the tiny fingers. He threw his mom a crooked grin. 

"Well, I guess WE go get it." 

"I'll meet you at the exit." 

"You sure? I can –" 

"Yes," Mary interrupted firmly, already reaching for the crutch and swinging her legs off the table. 

Sam traded a quick glance with Ellie the nurse-and-friend who only rolled her eyes. So Sam wisely decided a tactic retreat was in order. Back in the waiting room he helped Dean into his blue coat first and had just finished putting on his own jacket when he felt an insistent tugging at his pant leg. Looking down he found the four-year-old staring up at him. 

"Yes, Dean?" 

The boy only tugged again until Sam crouched down so he was level with his worried little face. 

"What is it?" 

"I'm going to be a big brother," Dean whispered, like it was a secret just between the two of them. 

"Oh, yes, you are." And Sam couldn't help a little laugh of wonder as he thought of Mary's belly, because, just, wow. Then he frowned when his brother's face remained creased with worry. 

"Dean, what is it?" he repeated, "You can tell me." 

Dean pulled in his lower lip and started chewing on it and, god, Sam KNEW this nervous habit, had grown up with and exploited it for years until Dean had trained himself out of his tell… 

"What if I'm not a good one?" Dean finally whispered in a sudden rush, his earnest eyes so concerned. 

Sam felt his breath stutter in his chest. He swallowed once, twice, a whole flood of emotions nearly choking him, and, oh, he could just imagine how that talk must have gone, his parents in the time-honored fashion all over the world telling their son that from now on he would be the oldest and had to be the responsible one and would have to look after his soon to be younger brother … not for a second considering the terrible BURDEN they had just placed on Dean's shoulders and for a moment Sam was so absolutely FURIOUS –! But this was not the place, this was not the time, this was not about him. Could not be about him and clenching his fists hard he fought to keep his voice calm, keep it steady, heard it tremble nevertheless. 

"Dean. Listen to me now. You will be an AWESOME big brother. AWESOME. And don't you ever let anybody tell you otherwise, especially not your little brother!" 

"And if I get a little sister?" 

Sam opened and closed his mouth several times, probably giving a pretty accurate impression of a fish out of water, then chuckled helplessly and shook his head. Trust children to put things into perspective. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before meeting Dean's gaze again, willing him to believe, to trust. 

"You will be a great big brother no matter what. I promise." 

Dean didn't look entirely convinced but nodded anyway, and it just about broke Sam's heart. Because this was the Dean he knew down to a T, putting on a brave face and soldiering on through the things that scared him. And for one moment he wanted nothing more than to grab Dean and run, hide him away somewhere save and protect him from all the terrible things life was about to throw in his way … but then Ellie's voice called from outside the room and the moment was gone. Sam's shoulders drooped in defeat. 

"Go on." He gave Dean a little nudge towards the door. "Everything will be fine." 

The lie was bitter in his mouth. 

Thank god Ellie accompanied them to the car. Sam was feeling way too unsteady and gloom to make conversation. He was even grateful for the icy roads so he could pretend they needed his full attention, a convenient excuse to continue his silence. Though his mother was silent too, gazing out the window lost in her own thoughts while absent-mindedly stroking her belly. Thinking about dad, maybe – had their marriage already become strained? – or all the things that could have gone so much worse today. Sam could have reassured her on that account, since Michael and the other angels would never allow anything to happen that might spoil their precious apocalypse, but whatever Death was doing to shield Sam's presence from heaven, it probably wouldn't last once Sam returned to his own time. And he would not be responsible for them manipulating their mother's mind again. His eyes strayed to the rear-view mirror but he could only see the top of Dean's bowed head. The little boy was also very quiet in the back seat, probably still worrying about his future responsibilities and even that Sam had failed to make better. Just as he had failed anytime he tried in the future. Gritting his teeth against the dark despair threatening to swallow him whole he brought the Impala to a gentle stop in front of his parents' home. 

Mary stirred like one startled and gave him a tight smile, fumbling with her crutch and the door handle and the brown paper bag that no doubt contained painkillers. By the time Sam had gotten out of his own door and around the car to help her, the smile had turned rueful and exhaustion was shining through. 

"Ah, well, it IS rather past nap time but I was hoping he'd last just a little bit longer." 

And following her gaze Sam realized that Dean's bowed head wasn't a sign of distress but only meant the little boy was fast asleep. He swallowed convulsively. 

"Do – do you want me to carry him inside?" 

Mary paused in the act of reaching across the back of her seat and looked almost hopeful. 

"If you don't mind?" 

Sam's voice cracked traitorously. "I don– I really don't." 

He helped Mary stand and on the better footing of the lawn then held his breath as he opened the door carefully, wincing at the inevitable creak. He needn't have bothered. Dean stayed out like a light as he unbuckled the seatbelt and gathered him gently in his arms, didn't even stir as he nudged the door shut with his hip or hefted him up higher. Limp as a rag doll. Limp as a corpse and Sam stomped on that though, stomped on it with all his might because this was too close to the last time he had carried his brother, and that last time Dean had been… 

Sam staggered, gasping, the smile he was trying to give Mary definitely a bit on the wild side. The walk to the front door seemed to take forever, with his mother still limping as she was, longer even for her to dig out the keys and let them inside. Sam tried to concentrate on how light Dean felt in his arms, weighing almost nothing and so unlike the literally dead weight that had bowed him down as he struggled on the steps in the bunker… and this was not helping, not helping at all! Feeling decidedly light-headed he followed Mary up the stairs, into the blue room under the the roof, lowered the tiny body in his arms onto the bed as she silently indicated him to do. Only then his arms refused to let go. 

Simply refused to let go of this living, breathing, blessedly warm miniature version of his brother because the last time he had touched Dean in their future, the last time he had carried him, Dean had been DEAD, dead and growing cold, becoming this strange, stiff THING for the second time in Sam's life and he couldn't – he just COULDN'T. Had to touch his forehead to the soft hair, restrain himself with all his might from tightening his grip although all his muscles were tense and corded, wishing only to crush Dean to his chest and never let go. As if that would change anything. As if that COULD change anything. 

Breathing in with a sob Sam finally forced himself to loosen his hold and turn his head to look at their mother. Noted the sudden wariness in her eyes, the way she had shifted the crutch in her hand, glimpsed for the first time today the hunter underneath the surface of woman and mother and wife. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered but still he couldn't stop touching, couldn't stop seeking this comforting contact with his brother, "I'm sorry. I'm scaring you. I'm sorry. It's just– I just lost someone, I thought I lost someone and I don't know how to bring him back, I don't know if I'm strong enough to bring him back, if there is enough left to bring back and –" 

He broke off, squeezed his eyes shut as he finally pulled away from the bed, from DEAN, held up his hands in a placating gesture as he edged towards the door. Mary swinging with him, watching his every move. 

"I'm sorry," he repeated, "I should go. I'm sorry." 

He fled, out of the room, down the stairs and no, no he couldn't do this, couldn't leave this. Stopping halfway to the front door he spun around, caught their mother's eyes who had made it to the first landing, still wary and ready to fight, and Sam supposed he must look a little mad right now, pointing up at her and voice cracking with fury and emotion. 

"You have a great boy up there. You hear me? A great boy and you tell him you love him. You tell him you love him. Every. Day. So he can never forget. Ever." 

Mary was just staring at him and deflating Sam held up his hands again, backing away. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I'm scaring you again. I'm sorry." 

Turning he yanked the front door open and stumbled through, grateful for the cold slapping his face like a physical blow. Running across the crunching lawn he only stopped when he reached the sidewalk, dragging in deep gulps of the freezing air, razor-sharp in his lungs, eyes shut tight against the burning tears. Roughly dragging a hand across his face and through his hair he blinked – 

– to light and noise and the greasy smell of deep-fried food and someone jostling past his shoulder with a "Hello there, just let me clean this up a little…" 

Sam flinched and stared wildly around at the diner, because the diner it was, until his gaze landed on the small table in front of him where a waitress was just picking up a mostly empty plate of burger and French fries, with knife and fork placed fussily at an angle. And one separately set, bitten-off fry. 

"… is the special today and then we have a variety of fresh pie…" The waitress was still prattling on as she wiped down the table then paused to give him a sharp look before adding distrustfully, "You are not going to hurl, mister, are you?" 

"No." Sam barely croaked the one word and he suddenly thought it might be quite a possibility but went on anyway, "No, I'm good, I'm good." 

Ignoring further comments he turned and blindly stumbled for the door, not stopping before it had fallen shut behind him. Standing in the dark parking lot he braced his hands on his knees and gasped for breath. Because it wasn't fair. It wasn't FAIR. How dare Death name this a gift? It wasn't. If anything it was a curse – he was a curse, had been Dean's burden before he was even BORN, and how was this fair to this little boy who had never asked for it, for their life; had only been thrust into it all by destiny and angels scheming and their parents' decisions and… And maybe he was missing the whole point here. 

Sam blinked, startled, and straightened up, then felt an unexpected wave of calm wash over him. Because it was true. 

Fate and heaven's plans and their parents' choices had made Dean a big brother. 

But only Dean had made Dean a good big brother. 

Had not only looked out for him or cooked dinner but given up the last of the Lucky Charms for him. Stole Christmas presents to make him happy, got angry on his behalf when he got bullied at school, eventually forgave him for choosing Ruby. Braved a painful death rather than letting him face the fight between Lucifer and Michael alone and offered understanding – late, reluctant and unhappy, but still – if Sam wanted to return to Amelia. He had made mistakes on the way, yes. Had stumbled more than once under the burden of responsibility, faltered even for a time … but never for long. Never for long. And that was what counted in the end. Not NOT failing was important. Only not giving up was. 

Sam drew in a deep breath and released it slowly then did it again with more force. 

"I'm coming, Dean." 

The quiet words in the dark parking lot were a promise to himself as much as they were a promise to the little boy who had worried about being a good brother … and the man somewhere out there who had made himself exactly that. 

"From now on I'll always come."


End file.
